


Visiting Hours

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Series: The Pacemakers [37]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canonical Character Death, Concern, Confusion, Diary/Journal, Drinking to Cope, Existential Angst, Fainting, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Misunderstandings, Multi, Post-Transformers: The Movie (1986), Rants, Regret, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:07:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6343393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ultra Magnus doesn't know Cliffjumper well; all he knows is that the spitfire has lost a lot of mechs he cared about—most specifically his fellow Minibots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visiting Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Pace - A company or herd of mules; in my headcanon, a family of Minibots; also a traditional expectation and an honor among Minibots who form one

_From the journal of Ultra Magnus, Second-in-Command, Autobot Earth Contingent_

_Earth Month: October. Earth Year: 2005. (0340 Local Time)_

I found him on the far end of Autobot City, the end where the bereaved frequent. It’s closest to the energon stock, most specifically the high-grade, and though it may wear down our stores I can’t blame them for wanting to drown their woes.

For him, it seemed to be a necessity.

The “him” I’m referring to is a certain Minibot. Cliffjumper…I don’t know him well, but I know he lost many Bots he cared about. In fact, I’ve been amassing a list of those who fell in the battle for our city and I’ve come to the conclusion that he lost all of his team but one. He and Bumblebee don’t seem to be talking at present and I can’t help but wonder why they don’t turn _to_ each other for comfort’s sake. Instead Bumblebee has taken to isolating himself and Cliffjumper has taken to drinking.

All of us lost Bots we cared for in the battle, of course, and it hasn't gotten any easier in the past two diuns. I still wonder if I had been faster, if I had been stronger, if Prowl might still hold the role I’ve taken up in his stead. I wonder if Optimus might still be alive. Of course I would lay down my life for Rodimus, but even he seems to wonder the same.

I also wonder about Cliffjumper. His reaction to the loss of his team was… shocking, to say the least. I wasn’t there to witness it, but when a mech can unnerve the carefree Jazz, I realize it must be dreadful. Once the count had been made and whatever bodies salvaged were presented for the mausoleum, I was told, Cliffjumper screamed.

This wasn’t natural for him, I’ve heard. In Jazz’s words, “It chilled my spark, Magnus, made me feel like purgin’. He just kept goin’ and goin’ until I was sure he was gonna crack his vents or his vocalizer, and we don’t have Ratchet to fix ’em anymore…”

Cliffjumper’s reaction indicated that Brawn, Huffer, Gears, and Windcharger were more than just his team. I recall Bots who know him best quietly mentioning some kind of ritual Culumexians have for groups of five to eight, but I can’t quite recall the word.

As I stated before, I found him on the far end with the high-grade at approximately 0303, Local Time. He didn’t notice me at first, so I made my way over and sat with him. What I write now is likely an approximation of what he said; it was hard to understand him, due to his overcharge.

“Did I say you could sit?” he grumbled.

“No, but now that I am sitting, what’s the point of sending me off?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t sound taken aback that he would talk this way to me, but perhaps he didn’t recognize me? After all, we _still_ don’t know each other that well.

“The point is I want to be alone. Just let me finish the cube by myself, will you?”

Of course he didn’t want to be alone, I decided. The reason he was here was to forget the fact that he was alone and didn’t want to be. I didn’t point this out to him, however; I’ve heard it’s not abnormal for their kind to put on airs in the presence of…(Note: research Culumexian term for larger-frames)…outsiders.

When I said nothing in return and made no move to rise and leave, he lifted his helm and stared at me. His face was drawn, strained, as though making expressions hurt, and his optics…I don’t think I’m going to forget them any time soon and it’s difficult now to describe them accurately. There was something…very broken there, something he was trying to hide, which made it all the more blatant.

If he was intending to make me uncomfortable, it was a good effort. I shifted slightly in my seat, but I still didn’t leave him. I don’t actually know what I had intended by sitting with him, whether it was to convince him to recharge or to simply keep him company, but he clearly didn’t want either. I had to say something.

“The mausoleum is set to jettison tomorrow,” I reminded him, receiving no reply. “If you’d like to…pay your respects.” I was trying to be gentle, but even across the table I could feel his EM field lashing; I’d just angered him.

“My _respects?!_ ” he hissed, clutching his cube more tightly, creating spidery cracks where his fingertips were. “They—they don’t deserve respects!”

That confused me and I tried to puzzle over it while he spat choice words at me. He seemed to discern that I wasn’t listening, so he went on, which gave me more time. Why was he so grieved if he believed they didn’t deserve his respect? I still hadn’t answered that question when he abruptly lunged at me. The element of surprise let him take me off the chair and onto the floor, with him in my face, close enough that I could smell the high-grade on him.

“I didn’t respect them!” he repeated, voice cracking as he got louder with each word. “I _fraggin’_ _loved_ them! They were the only ones who understood and accepted what I was, what I am, and they _forgave_ me!” I could surmise that the high-grade was the only reason he was telling me this, but whatever the reason, he went on, screeching at me at a surprisingly high pitch. “They were my family! They took countless hits for me, they took the rap under Prime for what I did and said, and they never minded! If I wanted to, I made their lives a living Pit and I—I made their deaths a Pit too! They didn’t lay down their lives for this tricursed, fraggin’ city or the tricursed, fraggin’ Matrix! They did it for each other—and for me! It’s _my_ fault they’re gone and I can never…”

He seemed to have run out of air; he contracted his vents shakily, swallowing what sounded like a whimper. When he finished, he wasn’t shouting. “…I can never thank them.” By now his optics were glazing over, so it wasn’t too unexpected when he passed out, sliding off of me onto the floor with a mostly slurred and incoherent mention of “the pace”. I can only theorize that this remark was because he hadn’t expected how quickly the high-grade took effect.

I’ll admit I was shaken by everything he had said. It wasn’t just because of his volume or the strength with which he’d held me down; it was also because what he had said of his team and what they had died for was very reminiscent of what _I_ would have done…what _Optimus_ did…

Again I was jarred out of my thoughts by footsteps. Upon looking up, I found Bumblebee standing above me. I have no idea when he had arrived or where he had been hiding, but I didn’t ask. His attention was fully on Cliffjumper. Even though he wasn’t looking at me, I saw the same brokenness in his optics that I had in his teammate’s. He didn’t say a word, simply crouching and hefting the other mech’s frame up to carry him out, no doubt to a berth.

After this encounter, I can’t recharge. There are so many things I wish I could do for them and for the others who lost someone they respe—loved—respected _or_ loved. In the meantime, I can only hope that some of the peace given to the mechs who were lost, granted by Primus, would also be granted to those left behind.

_End Journal Log_


End file.
